What's in an Acronym?
by TeaLogic
Summary: Drabble. The art of saying something is harder than Sherlock would believe.


**What's in an Acronym?**

_Drabble. The art of saying something is harder than Sherlock would believe._

**Notes**: A lovely person on tumblr called _indeathmayibetriumphant_ had a fabulous idea where Sherlock hid an appreciative message for Joan under the disguise of an acronym in his texts. Here is my attempt to fill that idea.

**Warnings/Content**: Drug withdrawal, platonic S/J

Complete credit for the idea behind this fic goes to _indeathmayibetriumphant_ on tumblr!

* * *

Sherlock is no stranger to withdrawal. His stint in rehab was a ghastly watercolour of it, one symptom running into the next and congealing in his brain. There were days lost to it, countless thoughts cast aside in the wake of this incredible pain he would feel running through his body. Despite this new life at the Brownstone, no matter how cured he thinks he is, he can always feel the next episode ticking in his blood and he fears it.

It takes a random night after a random case. There is no real cause, no event that can be lead up to this conclusion. His body has decided to go off like a badly made explosive. The moment he feels it begin, he retreats like a wounded animal, thinking that if he can lock himself away in his room then maybe the symptoms won't follow. Secondly, he foolishly thinks that retreating early won't rouse the suspicions of the person who is here for these types of things.

But Joan Watson is on his heels. A gentle tapping at the door and his name softly spoken can be heard half an hour later and he slightly raises his head from under the duvet. His temperature spikes and he can hear himself telling her that there is nothing wrong even though things couldn't be further away from the truth.

In this moment he is glad when the door opens and Joan is gently tapping his shoulder. He is glad that she knows better than to take his word for it. He's glad that she's not afraid of him because god knows he is. His dullness of the mind and his downright stupidity as a result of drugs becomes the fuel for his nightmares here and it's hyping him up right now and he _needs someone._

And Joan Watson pulls up a chair next to his bedside and talks up an antidote for it all. Hours clock on and the night is spent on chatting nonsense. She keeps the monsters at bay by responding, he thinks. They talk of trials and tibias and Egyptian poison until he doesn't remember drifting off.

The next morning is a bowl of strawberries dipped in sugar and a face that says 'don't worry about it'. It's her job and the reason why she's there, to help him through those nights where he's a sweating, shivering mess. It's all part of recovery, she repeats over and over.

However, the memory of last night does not translate well for him and he kneads his sore forehead. Inside him is a flare. He watches from the table as she chops her fruit (the standard morning smoothie made in the noisy blender is skipped in light of his headache) and mentally says to her that no, this is more than her job. He might as well be standing naked in front of her for all that he exposed last night. Rarely does he get embarrassed and he bloody hates the feeling of it now.

He looks at her clothes, casual but with her standard stylish twist. That long glossy hair is down; she's meeting a friend for a coffee date in five minutes. She looks as poised as ever and there are only slight traces of last night's horror present. He detects a slight hunch in tired shoulders, dark circles under her eyes and a too sharp a glance- an assessment of him as she slices a watermelon and idly chats about her schedule for the day and asks if he has plans for any murder enquires to pop up in the meantime?

Yep, he might as well be completely naked. Because while she goes on and on he wants to say a thousand things to her and say how bloody grateful he is that she's here. But he cannot do it while he's like this.

When she's out the door, promising she'll be back soon enough, he goes to sulk in the living room, the bowl of strawberries in hand. He shuts the blinds with a snap, angry with himself. Mooching in the dark, he twirls his mobile over and over in his palm in furious contemplation. He cannot acknowledge to her what happened last night and he's also highly mortified about that fact. He can't seem to thank her either, although he's more than capable for thanking her for pointless other things such as ordering his favourite takeaway dish and saving his life.

He looks wistfully at the strawberries. _Think _damn it. Think of what you can say to this rather remarkable woman.

How does one convey the message _of I am lost, absolutely, without you_?

He checks the time. His phone says that it's ten thirty.

* * *

- IALAWU. Jst mking u aware. **Sent 10:35**

Watson: What? Didnt we have this chat about acronyms?! **Received 10:36**

-Translation is I Advise Later A Weatherproof Umbrella, shud b 1 in yr car **Sent 10:41**

-Dnt trust weather forecast **Sent 10:41**

Watson: ? DW, on my way home. Get your saliva ready. **Received 10:43**

-Saliva is alwys redy **Sent 10:43**

* * *

_Yes. Absolutely lost. _


End file.
